


Anabasis

by Batien



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Historical Accuracy, Kidd and Killer Bromance, M/M, No Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, The Wano Squad, Violence, i try at least, some xenophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-10-03 20:09:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20458763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batien/pseuds/Batien
Summary: Publius Basilicus Hovscius, a diviner for the Roman army, has been deployed to Britain with a legion. But after an accident separates him from the rest of the army, can he return to the Roman high society he craves, or will he find something worthwhile at the frontier of civilization instead?Features the whole Wano Squad of Supernovas (except Luffy, Zoro, and Law) because I love all of them





	1. Glossary

**Author's Note:**

> This contains all terms relating to Roman culture or society used in the fic, and will be updated for every chapter as more terms are used.

Caledonia: Roman name for Scotland.

Haruspicy: A form of divination involving the examination of sacrificed animals. A practitioner of haruspicy is called a haruspex.

Nomen/Nomina: The first of a Roman’s names is the praenomen, a given name (like a first name in English). The second is the nomen, which is a surname. The third is the cognomen, which usually (but not always) is given long after birth and relates to the person’s deeds or characteristics. Some Romans had a second cognomen, which was often awarded for military service. For instance, Quintus Caecilius Metellus Numidicus was descended from a Roman noble who had been nicknamed Metellus (hired servant, likely referring to their origins as a plebeian family), but for his generalship in Numidia was given the additional cognomen Numidicus by the Roman senate.

Domus: A private home for the upper middle class, as opposed to the insulas (apartment buildings for the poor/lower middles class) and the villas (mansions).

Asia: Roman name for what is now Western Turkey.

Hispania Tarraconesis: Roman name for about 2/3ds of Spain, (the central plateau, Basque country, Galicia, part of northern Portugal, and Catalonia).

Gaul/Gallic: Roman name for modern France and Belgium.

Britannia: In Roman times, referred specifically to modern England and Wales.

Picts: A confederation of Celts that would later mix with the Gaels and become today’s Scots.

Cisalpine Gaul: Italy north of the Po River.

Glycon: An Anatolian/Macedonian snake god, believed to have powers of fertility. Though their cult was most popular in the 2ndcentury, the existence of Glyconians is attested to by Horace, who died prior to the 1stcentury.

Hibernia: Roman name for Ireland, which during Roman times was known for rampant piracy, much as the Vikings would later be characterized by the Irish.

Praetorian Guard: A special unit of the Roman army that guarded the emperor and unofficially interfered in politics. Known for assassinating some emperors and putting their own puppets on the throne. If you couldn’t already tell, GLADIUS is completely made up. However, the Praetorians did have a secret service, known as the Speculatores.

Solidus/Solidii: A Roman coin made of gold, known for having a consistent value.

Denarius/Denarii: A Roman coin made of silver, usually the first to be debased with other metals during times of crisis.

Cernunnos: A Celtic god. I doubt Britons had any phrases that close to “oh my god,” since they were polytheists, but since no Romans ever recorded Celtic oaths I have to take artistic liberties.


	2. Barbarians at the Gates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawkins doesn't get along with a certain pair of barbarians.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consult the glossary for any unfamiliar terms, they're probably in there. The terms are in roughly chronological order as they appear in the fic, please tell me if I failed to define anything unusual and I'll add it. Also, Hawkins and Drake don't have their "normal" names at first, they have Roman and Greek names. That will eventually change, but I'm sorry if it's confusing.

In the latter half of the 1st century AD, the Roman Empire was near the height of its power. Its legions marched everywhere from the craggy scrub of Hispania to the lush cedar forests of the Levant. Trembling servants of distant potentates journeyed for hundreds of miles and laid gifts of fabulous riches and bizarre creatures at the emperor’s feet just for a chance to curry his favor. Rome gleamed from afar, a city of marble and gold unparalleled by even the splendor of Ctesiphon or Alexandria. For a time, it truly seemed poised to live up to its name as caput mundi—the capital of the world.

In the latter half of the 1st century AD, Publius Basilicus Hovscius was not doing as well. The straw in his bedding was scratchy, one of the legionnaires was snoring, and the threadbare ceiling of the tent dripped frigid Caledonian rain directly on to his face. If he flipped on to his front, however, the rough sackcloth would irritate his skin. He’d spent hours scrubbing himself in the sea to regain his healthy glow, and he wasn’t about to lose it again. So instead Basilicus laid motionless on his unpleasant bed, wondering where he had gone wrong. By all accounts, his life had been rather good up until a few months prior. He’d advanced about as far as an Egyptian Greek for whom Latin was a second language could go: Roman citizenship by 10, Roman residency by 22, and a position as a haruspex by 26. For 5 years he had mingled with the Roman upper crust, those with nomina like Junius and Cornelius, telling their fortunes and snacking at their tables. He owned a beautifully simplistic domus on the Caelian hill, and often strolled down to the baths and met with the other freedmen from Alexandria.

But then he’d been invited to the villa of one of Rome’s up-and-coming generals, Lucius Caesarus Borsalinica. He struck Basilicus as a bit of an idiot, with drooping eyes and a laconic voice, but as long as the general paid him, he was happy to read his fortune. Basilicus became a regular at Borsalinica’s home, and when the general asked for a haruspex to accompany him on his next campaign, he was the natural first choice. However, he had expected Borsalinica to go to a nice and peaceful province, like Asia or Hispania Tarraconensis. Instead he’d ridden through miles filthy Gallic countryside, camped out with the general’s bodyguards in a barely functional tent, and been packed into a trireme and dropped off with the rest of the army in terra incognita.

The climate of Britannia was quite a strain on Basilicus’s Mediterranean physique. Alexandria and Rome were nice and temperate, assuaged by the balmy winds of the sea, but the Atlantic was far more violent, spitting chilly waves against the British coast. Nor was it better further inland, as the rain was just as cold and incessant, slowly soaking into everyone’s skin despite their layered clothes. The immense trees blocked out what little sunlight filtered through the clouds, and around every corner there was a thicket of brambles waiting to slice the legs of careless soldiers. Basilicus had more than a few battle scars from the thorns himself; though the general’s staff had horses at first, the crude paths their force traveled became too difficult even for their mounts. Once they’d reached the highlands, the trees had sparsened out, but Basilicus didn’t like Caledonia much more than Britannia. The rocks that littered the hills were ferociously sharp, and often stabbed through the Romans’ sandals and cut their feet. The tribal auxiliaries seemed to take pleasure in leading the legions into the thick of the swamps, where they sank up to their shins in mud. Basilicus had bunched his robes up around his waist, hardly befitting for a priest, but he hoped Jupiter Optimus Maximus would overlook his blasphemy against the sacred garb.

They had seen very few Picts, or, for that matter, people at all, since passing out of Roman territory. The Picts weren’t like the savage tribesmen that Basilicus had read about; most of them were gloomy-looking herders. Rather than woad patterns and the smallest of loincloths, the Picts looked much like any shepherd in Cisalpine Gaul did, with coarse wool shawls to keep out the rain. Basilicus pitied them in a dismissive way, for even being a Roman’s house slave would be preferable to tending malnourished sheep in this sodden hellhole. Basilicus wondered how well his house was holding up back home. He’d assigned the 2 slaves he could afford to maintaining his strict standards of interior design, but without his guidance he was skeptical as to what it would look like when he returned to Rome. Lulled by thoughts of his cushy life, the itching of the straw against his back faded from his mind. Basilicus drifted into a fitful sleep, his body finally giving in to its exhaustion. He did not dream.

“Enemy force spotted! All hands to the walls, now!” Basilicus was abruptly awoken by a call from the night guard nearest to his tent. He tossed on his robes and hurried out. Many legionnaires already had their armor on, and as they rushed through the darkness, they stirred up waves of mud. Basilicus winced as his sandal was nearly torn away from him by the muck, and he squelched towards the general’s tent. Amidst the gloom and chaos, Basilicus fell in with the only other white-robed attendant not high ranking enough to sleep in the commander’s quarters.

Deka Drakonis was Borsalinica’s astrologer, requisitioned from the navy where he had been an officer. Both he and Basilicus spoke Greek, but that was where the similarities ended. While Basilicus was a sophisticated speaker of Koine Greek, Drakonis spoke hopelessly rural Ionic Greek. Basilicus followed the distinguished tradition of haruspicy, handed down to the Romans by their Etruscan forebears, and Drakonis favored the decadent astrology of the eastern Babylonians. This is not to say that Basilicus necessarily disliked him. Even though Drakonis struck him as a backwater lout whose divination was a scam, it was nice to have another Greek around to talk to, and especially another practitioner of the prophetic arts, no matter their validity.

“Publius, that you?” Drakonis’s immense, scarred chin jutted out of the darkness, followed eventually by his eyes. “This is comin’ down so damned hard, I can barely see the path.”

“Yes, Drakonis, it is I.” Basilicus sighed, but only got halfway through the motion before sputtering rainwater everywhere.

“These night guards must be seeing things. What sort of lunatic barbarian would attack during this weather? Hah, they couldn’t even see far enough to throw their javelins,” Drakonis laughed, without mirth.

“I would not know. This is my first campaign, not to mention my first time amongst such a benighted people.”

“Don’t worry, it’s only a few hours out ‘till morning. Won’t be benighted much longer.” As far as Basilicus could tell, Deka wasn’t really stupid. He knew just about every star by name and was evidently sophisticated enough to sweet-talk his way into a noncombatant position. His vocabulary was just lacking enough to give Basilicus a good reason to privately disdain him.

“Why are you out here with me, anyway? The probability of you seeing even a single star through these thunderclouds is so slim as to be nonexistent.”

“Astrology isn’t my only skill, you know. This island may be full of barbarians, but thankfully it’s also full of snakes. If I can find one of them wriggling around in the camp, I’ll get much better information than you could get from its guts.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those Glyconian lunatics.” Basilicus pulled a face, then realized that Deka probably couldn’t see him through the rain. “Any snake will hiss when you pick it up, you fools aren’t communicating with them.”

“Those who stay in glass camps shouldn’t throw javelins!” Deka laughed it off. “Every animal your haruspices slice open has a bunch of entrails, too, but you swear they’ve got a new meaning every time.”

“That’s different. Haruspicy was an Etruscan art, handed down to the Romans. Your cult was invented barely a century ago.”

“Exactly! It’s modern science. And did haruspicy do the Etruscans any good when they had to fight the Romans?”

Ugh. This stupid lout’s comments were actually getting to him. Basilicus decided to let the point go before Deka provoked him any further. Thankfully, they were approaching the command tent, where Borsalinica had hopefully prepared an animal for him to inspect.

The tent was thronged with commanders, and the two priests had to shove their way into the center. Borsalinica was talking to someone who, by his outfit and lack thereof, was probably one of their Brittonic allies. Basilicus hadn’t bothered to learn any of their names. It wasn’t like some barbarian prince would have any influence among high-society Romans, so it was far more productive to get to know the officers.

“Well, Kidd?” Despite the panic of his subordinates, Borsalinica was lazy as always. “Are these Red-Hair’s tribesmen or someone else’s?”

“Beats me, jackass.” The barbarian’s Latin was harsh and clipped, but so was his voice, so Basilicus thought it fit him. “I can’t even see the soldiers in this shitty weather, much less their emblems. This whole island is full of bastards who want nothing more than Roman cash and Roman corpses.”

“Ooh, how scary.” Borsalinica didn’t look scared. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your Roman cash soon enough, as long as you help us out. You know, it’s not like it matters to the emperor who rules a little tribe in the hinterlands. If you don’t help us out, maybe Red-Hair would be more willing in return for a certain runaway prince…?”

“How dare you!” Basilicus just then noticed the immense warrior standing behind the barbarian prince. He wore a bizarre mask, whether for protection in battle or for intimidation purposes Basilicus wasn’t sure. “You filthy scum, we have a deal! We put our trust in you!” He made to draw a scythe from his belt, and several of the equites in the back pulled out their weapons.

“Relax, Killer.” Before it could escalate into a fight, the prince put his hand on one gnarled arm to restrain his comrade. “There’s no such thing as trust in a wartime alliance, is there, Roman? I was telling the truth when I said I don’t know who the hell these dumbasses are, but I’ve got a suspicion.”

“Oh?” Borsalinica arched a sleepy eyebrow. “Maybe you can still be better for us than Red-Hair.”

“Shut the hell up. Anyway, as I was saying, I think we’re within roaming distance of the Beast Tribe. They’re savages even by Pict standards, a bunch of murderous psychos who only recruit the strongest warriors they can find. I’ve heard they eat a diet of only raw meat; they think it’ll give them animal powers or something. Normally they stay a lot further north, but if they heard a Roman legion was marching through the south, there’s no chance in hell they’d pass it up.”

“So, we can’t negotiate them down?” Borsalinica grimaced. “I do hate having to fight more than necessary. Sentoumarus, can’t you distract them with a cohort while we pack up and get out of here?”

“HEY!” Kidd snarled. “Didn’t you listen to a thing I said, you shitty old man? These guys aren’t like those pushovers you’ve seen tending the fields. You can’t send a cohort in there and think that’ll take care of it!”

“I’m done here. If you want to fight a worthless battle, you do it.” Borsalinica yawned and waved Kidd away. “But, since you’re so worried, I’ll send another cohort out. Sentoumarus, take your cohort and Helmeppo’s. Everyone else, pack up!”

Since there wasn’t going to be a battle, there was no need for anyone to read the auspices. Basilicus and Deka trudged back through the main thoroughfare, robes hopelessly splattered with mud. Basilicus kept his eyes trained on the ground to avoid stepping into anything noxious that had been stirred up by the rain, and as a result completely missed the bare torso of Kidd in front of him.

“Hey, watch where you’re going, you prissy Roman prick!” Apparently, Basilicus was an easier target for Kidd’s rage than Borsalinica.

“My apologies. It seems it was your fate to be bumped into, I didn’t intend—”

“What the hell? It was my fate? The fuck is that supposed to mean? I’ll bash your damn head in, you twig-armed bitch!” The blood vessels in Kidd’s neck bulged taut, and he was even trembling with fury. In the back of his mind, Basilicus lowered his chances of survival by a few percentage points. Someone this angry wouldn’t hesitate to kill a priest.

“Prince, let’s get out of here.” The man—Killer, wasn’t it?—spoke up from behind Kidd. “If we keep dawdling, the Beasts—”

“SCREW THE BEASTS!” Kidd’s spittle landed on Basilicus’s face. He desperately wanted to wipe it off, but that would probably make Kidd angrier, which didn’t seem like a smart move. However, if he did get angrier, he might rupture a blood vessel, which would certainly take care of the problem. “I’ve been looked down on by these little bitches for years now! I can’t even enter their city, I have to shell out for a fucking villa while those old bastards endlessly debate my case, then I get ignored by the army that’s supposed to be helping me! SCREW IT!”

Basilicus closed his hand around his haruspex knife, tucked within the folds of his robe. He had never killed anyone before, and in fact found blood rather detestable, but his pacifism was born more from lack of opportunity than moral concerns. He could justify it to Borsalinica later. Sure, he and Deka didn’t get along great, but if it came down to it, he could intercede in Basilicus’s favor. He drew his knife the same time that Kidd wound back a punch, but neither one got the chance to use it.

They couldn’t hear it over the roaring wind, but an unusual rumbling had been coming from the direction of the gates for a while. One of the sources of the rumbling had just drawn around the corner of the barracks and hurtled towards the priests and Britons. The legionnaires that saw it coming jumped out of the way, but both Killer and Deka were too focused on their counterparts’ brawl to look around. Too late, Basilicus caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and swiveled his head. A Brittonic chariot, propelled by two frothing horses, plowed into the group. He only saw glimpses of the rider: massive teeth like dominoes, a greasy single braid swinging in the gale, and unbelievably long arms. Basilicus felt himself being dragged by the horses, and before he mercifully lost consciousness, he heard a sound he would soon become familiar with. “APAPAPAPAPA!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Roman history, so when I got this idea I had to write about it. Also, chapter 954 DESTROYED the plot I had envisioned, but it gave me even better ideas for the one that's currently being written. Anyway, please tell me your thoughts, I love getting feedback on fics. It's been quite a while since I had motivation to write any fics, so I'm kinda rusty.


	3. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basilicus wakes up and learns about his only "friend"'s real job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter took so long, but I'm in my first year of college and a LOT has happened that's been keeping me from my fic writing. (Not least of which was taking an Islamic history class and wishing I set this fic then) But it's here now! I really enjoyed writing this, even if Killer and Drake are really tricky to write.

Basilicus slowly woke up. His head throbbed like it was being trepanned, so he kept his eyes scrunched closed. He felt something warm and damp slowly rubbing his face. Was it warm rain? Or perhaps a washcloth, preferably one held by a beautiful bathing attendant?

He cracked an eye open, then recoiled in horror. It was one of the Brittonic horses licking the salt from Basilicus’s ocean bath off his face. Basilicus wiggled away from the horse and saw where the chariot had overturned a few meters away. He crawled under it, glad to find some shade to rest in. The horse whinnied in disappointment as her salt lick crawled away, but didn’t press the issue.

Great. His robe was in complete tatters. Luckily, he still had his linen tunic from home, but even it wasn’t in good shape. There were significant bloodstains on it, whether his or some other unfortunate victim of the chariot’s he wasn’t sure. Still, a priestly robe didn’t come cheap, and the wool had been a great insulator. Although, if Deka Draconis had been hit too, his robe might be in better shape. And if he had happened to get killed, it wasn’t like he would need the warmth for anything.

Desire for warmth got the better of Basilicus’s limited morality. Despite his still-aching head, he peered out to see where he’d ended up and if there were any unattended robes laying around. The chariot had run up against a less-than-impressive cairn, and whatever symbols were on the rock had been smashed into rubble. The second horse was nowhere in sight, but as Basilicus looked, another figure stirred in the tall grass several yards away.

It was Killer, the barbarian from the previous night’s meeting, looking significantly worse for wear. The cropped blonde hair that Basilicus had hardly noticed in the previous night’s gloom was tangled with mud and brambles, and his war-mask was sporting a massive crack in its façade. His left arm was horribly mangled and gnarled, but Basilicus remembered it like that from before the accident, and none of the damage looked new.

Killer started at something Basilicus couldn’t quite see among the weeds and bent down. As he straightened up Basilicus realized he was cradling the prince, Kidd, in his arms. His left arm was obscured against Killer’s chest, but Basilicus could see a steady stream of blood dripping from around his shoulder.

“You!” Killer suddenly laid Kidd down again, swiveled around to the flipped chariot, and drew a nasty-looking sickle from his belt. Basilicus felt in his belt for the knife he’d pulled on Kidd, but it was gone, either fallen from his hands while he was unconscious or smashed beneath the chariot’s wheels. He went over his options. Chance of escape from someone with legs as muscular as Killer’s: 15% at the most. Chance of successfully defending himself: 0%. Chance of surviving if he surrendered: 0%, plus pain. Chance of hitching a ride on one of the horses—

His dismal train of thought was abruptly halted by a pair of furred boots that swung down from atop the chariot into his field of vision. Another Briton? No Roman would wear ridiculous boots like that, but if it was a Briton, who could it be? Both Britons the priests had been with were accounted for.

Now that Basilicus’s panic had subsided, he realized Killer hadn’t been looking at him in the first place. It was difficult to tell through the mask, but his sickle was definitely pointed upward towards the mystery man sitting on top of the chariot. Basilicus looked down at where Killer had laid Kidd, and his stomach lurched when he understood why Killer was so angry. Kidd’s left arm had been rent apart at the bicep. A sliver of bone stuck out from his arm, and Basilicus could tell it hadn’t been a clean cut.

“You bastard! Who are you with?” Killer sounded on the verge of both crying and screaming, but his sickle was steady. “Are you one of Red-Hair’s mercenaries? One of the Beasts? A Hibernian pirate?”

“Pleeease! You’re assuming the worst, apapapa!” This strange barbarian was, strangely, also speaking Latin to Killer. Perhaps they didn’t speak the same language? Basilicus didn’t know barbarians spoke different languages, he’d just assumed all their warriors were the same. “I’m a victim like you!”

“You think that insulting lie will work?” Killer drew closer, and Basilicus drew further under the chariot to avoid getting seen. “Can your pleading reattach my blood brother’s arm?”

“Can my death reattach it either? How about you listen to me, huuh?” Whoever this Briton was, he sure was flippant, and his crowing voice set Basilicus’s teeth on edge. “Those Beasts were holding me captive! They enslaved me, made me play their carnyces! I was lucky to escape on that chariot!”

“You mean you aren’t even a warrior, and you maimed the prince of my tribe? How dare you dishonor him! I’ll make your death painful!”

“Geez, don’t you want me to help you out? It’s not like you two know where you are, couldn’t you use a guide?” The Briton raised his voice a bit. “This offer is open to the Roman who thinks he’s out of sight under the chariot, by the way.”

Basilicus bit down into his cheek so hard that he tasted blood. All his escape plans were completely out the window. No matter which of the barbarians won the coming fight, they would know exactly where he was. Basilicus had heard lurid stories in the Forum about Brittonic barbarians who would eat the hearts of their enemies to gain their power. Admittedly, Basilicus wasn’t overflowing with power to be gained, but surely some scrawny warrior would be willing to try a Roman heart fillet.

“The what?” Killer snarled beneath his mask. “Forget it. Even if I believed you, it wouldn’t matter. I’ll deal with any of those Romans that survived after I’ve slaughtered you!”

“Oh, come on,” the Briton wheedled, “can’t we work this out peacefully? Last chance, Briton to Briton.”

“Last chance? Do you even realize how much danger you’re in? I’ll gut you like a fish!”

“Yikes, it’s a wonder you two are even alive. Do you pick fights with everyone you see or something? Just learn to chill out, apapapa!”

“You—You’re going to—You have the audacity to talk like that? As if I could overlook my blood brother’s crippling? I can’t take your filthy words anymore! I promise you the only noises you’ll be able to make after this are screams!” Killer lunged forward, but before he could reach the chariot, a figure loomed behind him and grabbed his arm.

Blood dripped from at least 10 gashes on his body. His robe was smeared with grass, stabbed through with thorns, and frayed along the edges. The snake pendant he wore had embedded itself in his shoulder. But still, the man stood tall and unyielding.

“I wouldn’t do that…’Manslayer’ Killer of the Kiddii.” Deka Draconis held Killer’s wrist in a vise grip. Had he been playing dead the whole time? Even when he was looking for the priest (or, more specifically, his robe), Basilicus hadn’t seen him anywhere. More puzzling was his speed. Deka had never been a very athletic person from what Basilicus could tell, but he’d been behind Killer in an instant.

“What the hell?” Killer tried to yank his sickle free, but his arm barely budged. “Let go of me, you Latin bastard! What kind of a priest has this kind of grip strength?”

“The kind that gets a commission from the Praetorian Guard.” With one hand, Draconis bent and pulled a hidden blade out of his boot. “Don’t move. I won’t fault you for your anger, but if you want to fight, save it for when your leader gets his tribe back.”

Killer relented, but even through the mask Hawkins could tell he was incandescent with rage. He knelt in front of Kidd, sickle still at the ready to defend his friend.

“Aaaah, thanks, Roman! Finally, someone who’s willing to listen!” The Briton suddenly bent down, and his head flopped into view of Basilicus. “How about you, pretty boy? You willing to trust Scratchmen Apoo’s scouting service?”

Even upside-down, the Briton was quite a sight, but not necessarily ugly. He had a nose like an arrowhead, and the roots of his hair were shaped like lightning bolts. His chin was dwarfed only by his mouth, and his smile looked ready to burst from the confines of his cheeks. His rows of teeth the shape of tombstones were, surprisingly, straight and clean. In fact, though Basilicus had thought his braid of hair was greasy, the barbarian was tidy and well-kept.

“Uhm…I think I’ll pass on that.” Despite his vulnerable position, Basilicus’s lip curled in disgust. “May I assume that you’re the aforementioned Scratchmen?”

“How fancy!” If Apoo was insulted by Basilicus’s rude manner, he didn’t show it. “I’ve never heard Latin as posh as all that before! What’s your name, blondie?”

“We don’t need names,” Deka interjected. “I'll take you up on your scouting offer, but I'm setting the ground rules. You’re gonna get us back to Borsalinica’s army, we’ll let you go with some denarii, and we don’t have to see each other again.”

“Oh no, I don’t think so! I’m not gonna gamble on how much tin your denarii have.” Apoo had straightened back up, but Basilicus could tell without looking that he was grinning from ear to ear. “THIS Briton works on the gold standard only, so hand over your solidii. And the names are a necessity. If we get captured by another tribe, they won’t be letting two Roman priests go. We’ve got to get our cover names straight.”

“If you’re asking for solidii, we may as well get held hostage by another tribe, it'll probably be cheaper,” Deka Draconis snapped back. “You’ll be getting denarii, half now and half when we get back to camp.”

Basilicus crawled back out from under the chariot. He had quite a nice view from the hillside, but one without much variation. The craggy hills stretched off to the horizon, interspersed by a few streams and absolutely no sign of civilization. There was none of the coastline that their camp had been nearby. The omnipresent clouds had parted in places, and the light accompanied a warm breeze that he could imagine was blowing from home. It really was a nice day, by Britonnic standards. The day was almost lovely enough to drown out the haggling going on behind him.

“I’m not budging, it’s gold or no guide! You Romans are supposed to be swimming in gold anyway, aren’t you? Hand it over, greedyguts!”

“Any transfer of solidii must be cleared by my employer, and I can’t contact them until we get back to camp. I’m no Roman, I'm just a Greek who works for them, but most of them don’t have two solidii to rub together either.” Deka Draconis pinched his nose and sighed. “If we were rich enough to pay your ridiculous fees, we could just bribe our way through all of Britannia.”

“All right, all right, I’ll cut you a deal, exclusive offer: denarii now, then solidii once I get you all back safe.” Basilicus turned to see Apoo in full for the first time, an even stranger sight than the man’s face alone. His arms were around twice the length of a normal man’s, and he was wrapped in a fancy red robe. It looked like silk, but surely a barbarian here at the edge of civilization couldn’t have a silk robe, right?

“Deal.” Deka Draconis grimaced. “It’ll be a damn ordeal getting GLADIUS to requisition me the funds, but I promise you I’ll get the solidii once I can establish a line of communication.”

“Pleasure doing business with you! See, it wasn’t so hard,” Apoo crowed. “Now, what are your names? We’d better get this cover story going before we set out.”

“Publius Basilicus Hovscius.”

“Deka Draconis.”

“You’re killing me here,” Apoo sighed, “do all you Romans have such mouthfuls of names? I’m gonna have to shorten it up a bit.”

“Well you’re one to talk, aren’t you, ‘Scratchmen?’” Basilicus had intended to take the wind out of his sails, but if anything, Apoo’s grin grew even bigger.

“Apapapa! You really do have a sense of humor, huh blondie?” Apoo nearly bowled Basilicus over with a slap on the back. As it was, he had to bend double and gasp until the air slowly came back into his lungs. “I thought you were a little wet fish, but we might get along yet!”

“Knock it off.” Deka Draconis looked less than happy, probably because of his lost solidii. “We’re not paying you for friendship, we’re paying you to get us back to Borsalinica. Get the cover stories together and let’s get going.”

“Okaaay, okaaay, I’m working on it,” Apoo said, “just give me a sec, it's a delicate art. I gotta make your names sound Britonnic, but still Latin enough for you two to respond to ‘em.”

Apoo absentmindedly plucked a root from the ground and chewed it while he thought. Basilicus fought back his urge to gag. He’d never eaten anything with dirt on it, and he refused to let that change no matter how deep into the wilderness they got.

“Ok, got it!” Apoo hopped up on the chariot and posed theatrically. “Say hello to…X Drake and Basil Hawkins!” The two Romans stared in disbelief.

“Well, I suppose it could be worse,” Deka Draconis, or, rather, X Drake, said.

“What happened to my praenomen?” the newly christened Basil Hawkins asked.

“Us Britons aren’t fancy enough to have no mens, prae or otherwise. Anyone with more than two names is gonna stand out, and some Britons only have one name.”

The two Romans stared blankly. “I don’t quite understand,” Hawkins said, “what do you mean, only have one name? What about your ancestors?”

“What about them? We’re getting named for ourselves, not for some old folks who already got named. Besides, their souls will be breathed into new bodies after death anyway.”

“Breathed into new bodies?” Despite himself, Drake just had to argue. “Come on, do you believe everything you hear? When you die, if you are good, Glycon will heal you and bring you into the Elysian fields with Him. Those who impugn the name of Glycon will be crushed between his coils for eternity, and—”

“What he means to say,” Hawkins interjected, “is that when we die, our souls will be taken to Hades, either to Elysium or Tartarus. No snake nonsense involved. Although, to be frank, the probability of any of us going to Elysium is…negligible.”

Drake was wiggling the snake pendant from out of his chest, and he looked prepared to argue. Before their discussion escalated into a full-on theological debate, however, Killer spoke up from the grasses.

“Let’s get moving, assholes. I think Kidd’s coming to.” His voice was still raw, but he had regained much of his lost composure. “And if he comes to before we’re already on our way, there’s no chance he’ll agree to follow you.”

“Geez, what’s the big idea?” Apoo whined. “Why do we have to give Kiddo over there such special treatment? What is he, a prince?”

“Exactly,” said X Drake, “and if you still want those solidii, you’ll quit prying into our backgrounds.”

“Apapapa, looks like you can make a joke, tough guy!” Apoo laughed, then quickly stopped laughing when he saw Drake’s grim expression. “Good Cernunnos, you aren’t kidding. An actual prince?”

“I told you, quit asking about us. You’ll get your gold, just get us on the move. You heard Killer.”

“Alright, boss, you got it,” said Apoo, “just give me a hand with these chariots real quick.”

The four who were conscious all got to one side of the chariot, Hawkins placing his hands carefully so as not to touch the mud coating the chassis. Before they could start to flip it, however, Apoo stopped them.

“Look up here, see the axle?” He stretched out a finger, and Hawkins couldn’t help noticing his fingers were also elongated like his arms. “Cracked straight through. If we try to drive on it, we won’t be going more than a few feet.”

“Could you, ah, put a new axle on?” Hawkins asked, and felt immediately foolish as the rest stared at him.

“It’s connected to the wheels, that’s not happening,” Apoo said. “Besides, you see any trees around here? This chariot’s hopeless.”

“Well you’d better figure out something soon,” Drake growled, “because if Kidd decides to go his own way like Killer thinks, we may as well not go back to Borsalinica at all.”

“I’m no weakling, but…I don’t think I can carry my liege if we’re walking all the way,” Killer said, sheepishly.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve got an idea.” Apoo grinned like a madman. “You Roman boys ever ridden a horse bareback before?”

Hawkins could swear his thighs already ached just from the thought of it.


End file.
